


Status Bro (the Brodependent Remix)

by pinkish



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Pining, bros being bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkish/pseuds/pinkish
Summary: Tom accidentally talks Mike through an orgasm and it would feel weird if it didn't feel so exactly right.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Brodependent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827888) by [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate). 



Tom closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, re-centering himself after opening Mike’s snap and seeing his whole, um, kit and caboodle on display.

When he opened it, innocently assuming it would be a stupid selfie, or a random shot of something in the room, he wasn’t particularly sneaky about it. So now Tom’s pretty sure the old lady who was behind him knows exactly what Latts’s dick looks like, even if she probably doesn’t know who he is.

In the moment, all he remembers is letting out a small squeak and somehow willing his fingers to close the app. The image, though, that’s going to stay with him for a while. It’s probably, definitely going to haunt him later (and there will absolutely be a later) when he jacks off.

It will, Tom realizes sadly, be awhile before he jerks it to anything else.

(And a small voice in his mind, _maybe_ his conscience, huffs at the implication that this is anything new.)

His hands are still shaking, but he manages to hit the “call” button. To say _what_ , he’s not really sure, because although he and Mike have always had a weirdly intimate friendship, getting a dick pic...that’s different. That requires a new set of friendship rules.

There was a moment when Tom entertained the possibility that it was an accident. Maybe Mike had that picture saved for sending to people he wanted to bang and hadn’t actually meant to send it to Tom. Or he hadn’t realized Tom could see so much. Or...something other than intentionally sending Tom a picture of his dick.

That moment doesn’t last long, though, because Mike’s greeting (“Dude, what the fuck! Didn’t you get my snap?”) makes it clear that he meant to send it and -- and here, Tom’s a bit floored -- doesn’t seem to regret it.

“I was standing next to a little old lady when I opened it!” Tom looks around to see if she’s still there and spots her white curls in the line next to his. He breaths a sigh of relief -- maybe she _hadn’t_ seen it -- but then she looks at him and winks.  Tom blinks and pretends he doesn’t notice.

He takes a calming breath in and out of his nose like their conditioning coach yells at them to do, and then does what he always does in situations like this: he follows Mike’s play. Mike’s always had a better sense of how to be a person off the ice and Mike hasn’t let him down before, so...

“You better be done by the time I’m home,” Tom says, like it’s normal for him to encourage his bro to jack it, “because I’m not bringing up all these groceries by myself.”

He starts the sentence a little shaky, but by the end, Tom can hear the smile in his own voice -- he feels his eyes crinkle, feels the stretch of his lips in a grin. Now that he’s accepted that this is actually real life, well -- he has to admit that despite not being anything they've done before, it's very _them_. Sure, he’s never really considered being on the phone with a masturbating Mike, but if he had -- if anyone asked him how it would go -- this is pretty close to what he’d describe.

“Well,” Mike draws the word out like he’s scolding Tom, “ _Maybe_ if you didn’t call me while I’m trying to take care of business,” Tom hears the sound of sheets rustling, and he flushes at the thought of Mike making himself more comfortable, “we wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

Mike sounds so smug -- like he isn’t the weird one here -- that Tom can’t help the laugh that comes out. The cashier looks up at him and he remembers that he’s in public, so he lowers his voice a little, for decency’s sake.

“Who the fuck answers the phone when they’re doing that? Just,” he looks around, furtively, and covers the mouthpiece with his hand, “jerk it and finish, man.”

“That--” Mike stutters, "that’s what I’m trying to do!”

Tom closes his eyes and prays for the willpower to survive this encounter. He hears another rustle of sheets and a small gasp that will definitely feature in some fantasies later. He doesn’t feel ... _great_ about that -- not just because he’s pretty sure there are some people here who recognize him and it would be totally awkward to talk to a fan with an increasingly boner-y dick, but because it feels, well, kind of gross to be getting turned on by a friend who’s decided that it’s bros to chat while one of them has his dick out.

“Did you get the peach and mango coconut water?” Mike’s voice cuts through his haze of arousal and guilt.

It takes Tom a second to figure out what Mike’s talking about -- right, he’d asked about what flavour to get and that’s what started this whole thing -- and he blinks. It’s getting harder to keep a handle on the conversation: are they talking about Mike stroking his dick until he comes? Are they talking about coconut water? Who the fuck knows? Tom lets out a small hysterical laugh.

“No, I got the pineapple kind and the regular one because you didn’t actually answer my question.” Tom leaves the end of the sentence (“because you sent me a picture of your dick”) unsaid because the cashier is looking at him expectantly, and he really doesn’t want to end up on Deadspin today. “Hang on.” Tom takes the phone away from his ear so that he’s not the asshole on the phone while a cashier rings him through, and he feels mostly in control of his body when he tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he carries the bags to his car.

He clears his throat because, well, he’s just going to do this -- this is the play. Apparently. “How much time do you need? I can go the long way?”

“No,” Mike sighs, “I’m just gonna call it.”

Tom feels a surge of, like, masturbatory protectiveness, because Mike can’t blueball _himself_ just because Tom’s on his way home. So, he scoffs as he loads the groceries into the car and says, “ _Bro_ , you cannot. You’re already -- there, Latts,” and he hears his voice catch, hopes Mike missed the stutter. Because although it seems impossible that he forgot, he had kind of forgotten that Mike’s dick was actually out and he’d really been touching himself -- _had_ touched himself when Tom was listening. He sits in the car and gives himself a moment of peace, free from the potential eavesdropping of fans.

“I’ll go the long way,” he turns the car on and makes his way out the parking lot, suddenly very sure that Mike _has_ to get off before Tom gets home. He grins and tries to get a bit of a leer in his voice. “You should definitely give it to yourself good.”

“Oh my god, weirdo.” Mike’s voice is muffled, but it definitely sounds like his “I love my stupid friend” voice. There’s a pause, and Tom switches the phone to bluetooth so he can hear in surround sound more of the small noises Mike makes as he moves on his bed. After a few seconds, Mike laughs: “You’re terrible at this.”

And that’s a challenge. Tom can hear it in Mike’s voice, knows his friend well enough to know when he’s being egged on. Mike says “You’re terrible at this,” but he _means_ “You can do better.” Tom doesn’t back down.

“What,” Tom grins and lets the smile come through in his voice, “you don’t like my _sexy voice_?”

Mike says, “No, not really,” but he’s laughing so Tom joins him.

It feels completely natural now -- sure, it’s weird, but they’re weird, so -- it works out. This is a thing they do, or, well, _are_ doing. Tom is resolutely not thinking about a next time.

“No, no, wait,” Tom pauses to let himself stop laughing and schools his face into a serious expression. “I’ve got this.” He doesn’t put on a voice, this time. Instead, he talks like he does when he’s trying to get someone hot. “Hey baby. What are you wearing?”

Mike laughs again, and Tom grins, because he knew the line would get him.

“You saw the snap, dumbass,” Mike says.

 _Yeah_. Yeah he had and it was really fucking hot but he can’t give Mike that win just yet. Isn’t ready to let Mike know just how good it was. “Yeah, I did. Saw you were too lazy to kick your underwear off all the way. Take your boxers off.”

 _Shit._ That...that was a bit too real, Tom realizes, his dick twitching at the thought of Mike doing what he’s told him to do. He brings it back to the half-sexy, half-jokey thing they’d landed on with another cheesy line: “They look better on the floor.”

Mike clears his throat and stutters on his words, “You’re the worst and this is dumb,” but Tom hears Mike shuffle around a little. “There,” Mike’s voice is a little raspier now, his breath coming a little faster, “no more underwear.”

Mike makes some comment about Tom being an underwear snob, but Tom doesn’t quite take it in because he’s still stuck on the realization that Mike took his underwear off because Tom asked him to -- _told_ him to. Mike took his boxers off _for Tom_.

Tom squirms in his seat, trying to readjust his now-hard dick without accidentally masturbating while driving. He has a brief flash of the headline he’d get if he got pulled over ( _Caps Forward Arrested for Sadly Jerking It To The Sound Of Teammate Getting Off_ ) and that’s just about enough to quell the rising desire.

Not entirely, of course, but just enough to make sure he doesn’t drive off the road. He realizes that he’s already almost home and he needs this to be over sooner than later.

“It’s about comfort, Latts. It’s important. I’m still driving, but you don’t have much time: come on, fuck your fist,” and Tom barely stops himself from saying “for me.”

He waits, listens, and is rewarded with a groan as Mike does just that: fucks his fist for Tom.  

He pulls into their driveway, but he won’t leave until Mike comes (and he is trying very hard to think of as a normal thing for buds to do) so he stays in the car and presses his hand against his cock to take the edge off.

“Think about your last hookup, if it wasn’t too long ago.” Tom’s not sure if he’s trying to show Mike that this doesn’t have to be, like, a _gay_ thing -- it might be a bros thing, still, right? -- or if he likes the idea of Mike talking to him about fucking someone else.

“It was last week,” another hitch of breath, another reminder that Mike’s turned on and touching himself, “asshole.” Mike lets out a surprised noise, like he wasn’t expecting to enjoy whatever just happened.

“Hm,” Tom closes his eyes and tries to picture the girl Mike was making out with when they went out last -- was it her? She was hot. Handsy. And Mike _had_ disappeared with her for a few minutes only to come back flushed and happy. “You didn’t tell me,” Tom savours the flare of not-quite-jealousy. “Was it good?”

Mike chokes on his breath a little, but doesn’t say anything.

“Latts. Answer me,” he doesn’t try to soften the order. He -- he needs to know, now. It’s Mike’s turn to follow Tom’s play. He leans his head against the headrest and squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his fists to avoid sticking his hands down his pants. “Did you like it?”

“Y-yeah,” Mike moans, “came so hard,” another gasp, “came so hard on her face, her chest.” Tom shudders, picturing Mike standing above him and letting his come land on Tom’s face.

“I wiped my come off her skin,” Mike’s voice is strained, like he’s clenching his teeth, like it’s hard to get words out. “I fed it to her.”

 _Jesus_. Tom feels his dick pulse and imagines Mike dipping his fingers, covered in come, into Tom’s mouth. “I love that,” he breathes out, “so fucking hot, Latts.” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, not really, but it happens and he can’t quite will himself to feel bad about it, because Mike grunts, low, heavy, trailing off into a sigh.

There’s a brief silence, and Tom still has his eyes closed tight.

“Finished,” Mike whispers.

“F-finally.” Tom slowly opens his eyes and squints at the light that floods his pupils. He leans his head on the steering wheel and mumbles something about ice cream melting and hangs up.

Tom counts to a hundred, trying to calm down so that he can stand in front of Mike without a hard-on. It doesn’t work, but he thinks he can probably do some strategic bag-holding. He presses the button to open the garage door and parks the car, letting doors slam a little louder than he normally would.

He’s standing on the other side of the kitchen island when Mike walks into the kitchen.

Tom’s about to make a joke about doing all the work around here, something to confirm that what happened is firmly in bros territory and that everything’s the same as it’s always been, but his brain halts because Mike’s wearing _Tom’s_ hoodie. Was Mike wearing it when--?

“That’s mine,” Tom hears himself say, his voice dumb and shaky.

Mike furrows his brow and tilts his head, “Yeah?”

“Go, uh,” Tom shakes his head to clear his brain of the wave of possessiveness that hit him at the sight of Mike in Tom's clothes. “Go get the rest of the groceries.”

Mike gives him a weird look but shrugs and heads to the garage. As soon as Mike’s back is turned, Tom escapes the kitchen and sprints to his bedroom, where he shuts the door and falls face-first on his bed, sticking his hand in his pants without taking them off.

“Fuck,” he breathes, when he finally gets his hand around his cock. He doesn’t even need lube, precum already making things wet and spit finishing the job. He can’t stop remembering, replaying the sounds Mike made: the soft grunt, the sigh, the hitch in his breath. “ _Fuck_.”

He thrusts into his hand a few times, but it’s not quite enough, not quite what he needs. He pushes his other hand into his pants and presses behind his balls, teasing but not quite touching his hole. He keeps steady pressure as he fucks his fist and it’s almost too much. One, two thrusts, and he’s coming -- he’s been on edge for so fucking long and it feels so good when he shudders and lets go. He can’t even really feel bad about coming in his pants. He rolls over onto his back and wipes his hands on his shirt. He lies there for a few minutes, listening to Mike banging around the kitchen, before getting up and changing into some shorts.

He’s barely got his shirt off when he hears a knock at the door, and Mike’s voice comes through: “Hey, the ice cream is fine. And thanks for the help putting everything away.”

Tom can practically _hear_ the eye roll.

In this, as in all else, he’s willing to take Mike’s lead. They’re playing it cool. He can do that. He grabs a shirt from a pile of clothes in the corner and opens the door, trying to school his face into an expression that doesn’t scream “I just got off because you made me so fucking horny.”

“Well,” Tom says, after he opens the door. “Not all of us got to stay home and jerk off like a total loser.” He punches Mike lightly in the shoulder as he walks past him, trying not to read anything into how close Mike is, how much he wants to lean in and press their bodies together.

He walks to the living room and turns the TV on so he doesn’t have to think about anything for a few minutes, and feels the couch jostle as Mike slumps into the cushion next to him.

“I dunno,” Tom looks at Mike out of the corner of his eye, and it feels -- almost normal. “Orgasms don’t normally count as a loss.”

Tom laughs and leans back into the couch, stretching his legs out next to Mike’s. He bumps his foot against Mike’s and smiles when Mike bumps his foot back. He bites back the tinge of disappointment that -- that nothing seems to have changed all that much, but then Mike leans his foot against Tom’s and -- leaves it there. There’s a shock of electricity that starts at the point of contact and makes its way through Tom’s body. He tries not to move, tries not to notice it, but he turns his head to look at Mike, who's watching the TV intently, and sees that his face is flushed.

Maybe not _quite_ normal, then.

 

* * *

 

The next few days are weird. Not bad-weird, just...not the same. Tom doesn’t know whether he’s relieved or upset or hopeful or stressed about it, and Mike is not giving him any cues.

They don’t touch any more or less than they usually do, but Tom feels an extra spark when they do. He can’t tell if it’s a him thing or a them thing. He thinks that Mike’s hand _might_ linger a second longer when he leans across Tom to grab something from a cupboard. But maybe Tom just feels it more, now. Mike doesn’t shuffle away when Tom leans against him on the couch when they’re watching TV, but maybe he never did.

It’s not like they’re moving around each other any differently, but it’s like -- it’s like there’s something between them, now, stretched thin and drawing them together, and Tom can’t tell if Mike feels it too.

Tom jacks off every night thinking of Mike. Which, okay, also not that different. But before he’d only let it happen in the heat of the moment when he couldn’t stop himself from imagining Mike’s hands on his cock, his lips against his skin. But now he _starts_ there. Now he starts with the image of Mike above him, stroking his dick until he comes all over Tom’s face. Now he starts with the sound of Mike swearing as he fucks into his fist because Tom told him to. Now he lets himself fucking _want that_ because he knows what it’s like.

It’s not bad, but it’s maybe not good.

He’s hesitant to do anything to let Mike know he enjoyed it, but he also doesn’t want Mike to think he hated it and therefore Mike. He’s frowning at his phone in his bedroom, trying to figure out if there’s like, a joke he could make on Snapchat to let Mike know they’re cool when he gets a notification that Mike’s sent _him_ a snap.

It’s a relief -- it’s the first snap Mike’s sent him since _that_ one and he can follow Mike’s lead here, again. Mike will chirp him about something and Tom can chirp back and they can go back to status quo and no one will feel bad about anything.

But it’s not a joke. It’s not a stupid picture; it’s another fucking _picture of Mike jerking off._

Except this time the caption says, “call me.”

And the thing is...Mike’s across the hall. That picture is of him on his bed right now and Tom is maybe fifteen feet and two closed doors away.

He calls.

“Tom,” Mike’s voice is raspy and strained. “You...you called.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

They breathe together for a few seconds.

“Fuck,” Tom falls onto his back and lifts his legs onto the bed. “Mike, what...”

“I can’t ---” Mike cuts himself off and takes a breath, “I can’t stop thinking about--”

And maybe that’s as much as Mike can give him, but Tom’s willing to take the reins now. He knows which way Mike wants him to go, and he can do this.

“Me neither. Fuck. The way you _sound_ , Mike.” He lets out a moan, hopes Mike can hear it across the hall, not just over the phone.

“Tom.” Mike sounds wrecked.

“Hey,” Tom breathes out, “I’ve got you.”

Mike laughs, “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” A pause, then Tom pushes his sweats off and wiggles out of his shirt. He curls his hand around his cock. “I want you to touch yourself, Mike.”

“I am.”

“Good. I want you to get your hand wet. Suck your fingers for me.” Tom swipes his thumb across the head of his cock. “And then I want you to wrap your hand around your dick.”

Tom can hear his voice, sure, authoritative, confident, and he doesn’t think he could sound like this for anyone else.

“I--” Mike groans and there’s an echo as Tom hears it over the phone and in the house. “I want--” another groan, stifled this time -- a little frustrated.

“You want more?” Tom will follow Mike where he needs to go, but he needs to know where that is.

“Your fingers,” Mike whispers, and Tom can hear him shifting on his bed. “In-- _fuck_.”

“Yeah. I can do that, Mike. Are your fingers wet?”

Tom hears wet noises as Mike sucks his fingers into his mouth. “Yeah. What now?”

“Reach past your balls,” Tom chokes on the word and mimics the actions with his own hand. “Press a finger against your hole. I’d like teasing you. If--”

“Oh, god,” Mike lets out a surprised gasp, “Would you--?”

“Yeah, Mike, fuck,” Tom strokes his finger around his rim, lets his finger dip in just a bit before bringing his hand back to his cock. “Stretch you out, get you all wet for me.”

Mike lets out a high-pitched whine and Tom almost comes right there. 

“You should.”

It’s a whisper, and Tom almost doesn’t hear it over the sound of his blood rushing through his body.

“You want me to--?” He holds his breath, waiting for the thing that will really fucking change this.

“Get in here, Wilson.” Tom hears the grin in Mike’s voice -- fond and exasperated as always -- and he laughs in response.

“Okay.”

Tom doesn’t hang up, but he levers himself out of bed and opens his door. Mike’s door is closed, across the hall, and he can hear the echoed sound of his breathing.

He reaches for the doorknob and pauses. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

Tom opens Mike’s door and blinks to adjust to the darker room until he sees Mike, spread out on the bed with one hand on his cock and the other at his ass, hands moving slightly, stroking.

“Fuck.” Tom breathes into the phone. Mike looks at him and grins. He lets go of his cock and removes the phone from beside his head, so Tom follows suit. He hangs up and drops the phone on the dresser.

“I want to taste you.” Tom hears himself say the words, but everything’s a bit hazy because Mike has closed his eyes and pushed his hips up into the air, fucking into his fist again.

“Yeah,” Mike breathes and it’s hard to tell if he’s saying yes to Tom or to himself, so Tom repeats it, louder.

“I want to taste you, Mike.”

“Get over here, then.” It’s another challenge that Tom’s not going to back down from, so he rests a knee on the bed and leans over Mike, putting his hands on either side of Mike’s hips and lowering himself slowly, never taking his eyes off of Mike’s grin. He breathes on Mike’s dick and lowers the last inch until his lips are wrapped around it. He swirls his tongue around the head and pushes down again, bumping his lips against Mike’s fist. He pushes Mike’s hand out of the way and replaces it with his own.

Mike grabs his arm and squeezes. “Fuck yes, Tom.”

Tom moans in response and speeds up his strokes, sucking lightly on the head of Mike’s dick, pressing his tongue against him, and swallowing him down again.

“Tom, I’m gonna--” Mike cuts himself off with a groan, and Tom lifts his head, keeping up his strokes.

“Okay.” He tugs on Mike’s hip, urging him down to the edge of the bed and Tom slides off so he’s kneeling on the floor, looking up at Mike. “Okay, you should come on my face.”

Mike’s eyes go wide, and the shocked ‘O’ of his mouth curls into a smile. Mike pulls his lower lip between his teeth and reaches for Tom’s head. He twines his fingers in Tom’s hair and pulls his face towards his cock again. Tom goes back to sucking and licking and stroking until he can feel Mike’s cock swell and harden, so he leans back a little to let the come land on his lips. It’s warm, and there’s a moment where Tom wonders what the fuck he’s doing, but Mike’s fingers clench in his hair and Mike whispers, “Tom,” reverently.

He opens his eyes and Mike’s staring at him like he’s a fucking god.

Mike removes his hand from Tom’s hair and strokes his thumb across Tom’s lips, gathering the come. Tom sucks Mike’s thumb into his mouth and brings his hand to his own cock as Mike sweeps his fingers across Tom’s face again and again. It feels like forever, it feels like hours, but a few strokes later, Tom squeezes his eyes closed and comes with Mike’s fingers in his mouth, the taste of his come on his lips.

“Jesus, Tom.”

Tom opens his eyes again, and Mike is smiling.

Good.

Mike moves his hand to Tom’s shoulder and tugs him back onto the bed. He maneuvers him until Tom’s the little spoon.

“Nap time,” Mike whispers into Tom’s ear.

“Okay.”

Mike tightens his arms around Tom and nuzzles his face into Tom’s neck. Tom lets himself be soothed by the rhythm of Mike’s breathing, until he falls asleep.

They’ve never done this, obviously. This is new and different, obviously.

But it kind of isn’t.

It feels like them.  
  



End file.
